


Exhibition

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Blow Jobs, Established Relationship, Exhibitionism, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-27
Updated: 2016-03-27
Packaged: 2018-05-24 04:46:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6141949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Oikawa might not be an exhibitionist -- this wasn’t his idea -- but he’s not so opposed to the idea to pull away when Iwaizumi catches him around the corner of the storage closet after their practice match, closes a bruising grip around his wrist and drags him sideways into the shadows of the unlit room." Oikawa's not an exhibitionist but he's not about to complain when Iwaizumi shows some signs of being one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Exhibition

It’s not that Oikawa’s an exhibitionist. Far from it; he’s completely happy to have Iwaizumi all to himself in the familiar space of his bedroom or Iwaizumi’s living room, doesn’t even begrudge the few seconds it takes to double-check that the door is locked before they proceed into anything more involved than kissing. The only gaze that Oikawa cares about having on him is Iwaizumi’s, and as long as the full weight of the other’s dark stare is fixed solely on him, they could be the last people alive in the world for all that Oikawa cares.

It’s just. Well. _Oikawa_ might not be an exhibitionist -- this wasn’t _his_ idea -- but he’s not so opposed to the idea to pull away when Iwaizumi catches him around the corner of the storage closet after their practice match and closes a bruising grip around his wrist to drag him sideways into the shadows of the unlit room.

“Iwa-chan,” Oikawa says, grinning his way into the edge of a laugh at whatever Iwaizumi wants from him. “I never figured you’d be into this kind of risky behavior.”

He’s joking. Oikawa’s certain, as the words leave his lips, that he’s going to get a glower for the suggestion, maybe the weight of an insincere punch against the resistance of his bicep. But when he blinks at Iwaizumi the shadows in the other’s eyes are nothing like anger, and Oikawa’s breathing catches and stalls into sudden realization in the moment before Iwaizumi’s hands are on his shoulders and shoving him back against the side of the closet. Oikawa stumbles backwards, nearly tripping as his heel catches some unseen equipment, but Iwaizumi’s hold is unbreakable on his shoulders and rushing him backwards and then his back runs up against the wall, the air leaving his lungs in a breathless rush at the impact, and Iwaizumi’s mouth is on his before he has time to gasp a new inhale.

Oikawa’s not sure what he did to earn this. Exhibitionism aside, it usually takes deliberate effort to drive Iwaizumi into the kind of desperate heat that he’s currently crushing to Oikawa’s mouth and digging into the shadow of fingerprints at his waist. It feels a little like being attacked, as if Iwaizumi is trying to have a fight with Oikawa’s complete lack of resistance, or maybe as if Oikawa is some delicious treat for which Iwaizumi has lost all self-control. Oikawa doesn’t get a say in the matter, not really; all he can do is submit, let Iwaizumi steal the breath from his lungs with the heat of his mouth, let the long line of Iwaizumi’s body pin him back against the wall until the weight of it is too much to feel in individual pieces. There’s just heat, the damp of sweat hanging heavy in Iwaizumi’s uniform and the stick of the bare skin of his calf catching at Oikawa’s, his hands shoving up to drag the other’s shirt loose of the edge of his shorts to make space for his fingers against Oikawa’s waist.

“Iwa-chan,” Oikawa manages once Iwaizumi is working against the sweat-slick at his throat, kissing the salt away from his skin as Oikawa tilts his head back to give him better access. “What brought this on?” He’s trying for teasing, attempting the sing-songy lilt that usually fires Iwaizumi to anger in other situations, but he’s not sure how well he succeeds; it’s hard to find the tension to fit under the words when his whole body is trying to melt against the hard press of Iwaizumi’s against him. “Could you not wait until we made it home?”

“Shut up,” Iwaizumi growls into Oikawa’s shoulder. The words rumble warning like thunder against the other’s collarbone. “Someone will hear.”

“I’m being quiet,” Oikawa protests. He thinks he is, anyway. It’s hard to judge the sound of his own voice when his blood is rushing so loud in his ears, but he can still hear the pattern of conversation from the court as the rest of the team works to disassemble the net for the evening. “Isn’t that part of the fun of this, anyway?”

“This isn’t _fun_ ,” Iwaizumi informs him as his hand slides up Oikawa’s waist, as his fingers spread to catch the rhythm of Oikawa’s heartbeat against his palm. “This is _risky_.”

“And fun,” Oikawa presses. “Isn’t that the thrill of exhibitionism, Iwa-chan?” Iwaizumi’s fingers tighten, dig pressure against Oikawa’s skin; Oikawa shivers with the friction, feels the heat rush to his half-hard cock in a single discrete unit of arousal. “Or is there something else that appeals to you?”

Iwaizumi draws back at that. His eyes look black, between his dark-blown pupils and the shadows of the dim-lit space; his mouth is damp, his lips visibly flushed even with a frown tightening the curve of them. “What the hell are you talking about? I’m not an _exhibitionist_.”

“Aren’t you?” Oikawa asks. He can’t see past the door to the bright lighting of the practice court, but he tilts his head anyway, enough to draw Iwaizumi’s attention out to the voices of their teammates and the sound of shoes squeaking on the floor. “What exactly is this, then?” Iwaizumi’s frown deepens, drawing a crease in his forehead in its wake, but his chin is coming down into the angle that always looks like a dare to Oikawa, and Oikawa’s talking faster in spite of his better judgment, fluttering his eyelashes into flirtation as his mouth catches into a smirk. “Was I just too sexy for you to wait until we got home?” Iwaizumi’s fingers tighten harder at Oikawa’s hips but Oikawa just lets himself sag warm against the wall, lets the drag of Iwaizumi’s hold at his hands draw him forward and closer to the other’s body.

“I understand,” he continues, looking up through his lashes at Iwaizumi’s glare, letting his voice drop into the lowest purr he can muster while still keeping to the necessity of a whisper. “I wouldn’t be able to keep my mind out of the gutter if I were dating me either.”

“Shut up,” Iwaizumi growls.

“No one will hear me,” Oikawa tells him, reaching out to fit his fingers inside the elastic of Iwaizumi’s shorts and tugging suggestion against the resistance of the fabric. “I could suck your cock right here, I bet we could get away with it.” He shifts his knee, rocks his weight forward to press against the front of Iwaizumi’s shorts; Iwaizumi hisses, pulling back from the weight, but Oikawa doesn’t need to feel the heat to see the way the thin fabric is tenting around the shape of Iwaizumi hard on the other side. “You want it, don’t you?” Oikawa grins, lets his head weight heavy to the side; Iwaizumi’s gaze trips away from his face, slides sideways to land against his throat instead, and Oikawa keeps talking as he dips his fingers farther past the edge of Iwaizumi’s shorts. “It’s understandable, you know, you’re dating _me._ I can see why waiting even fifteen minutes would be impossible. How do you survive the day at all?”

“Shut _up_ ,” Iwaizumi snaps, and his hand draws away from Oikawa’s chest, swings out to shove the other’s touch free of his clothes. Oikawa lets his hold go, his breathing stuttering into a laugh in his chest, and he’s ready to straighten, ready to collect himself so they can go back out to the illumination of the gym before making their way home to resume what Iwaizumi started. But Iwaizumi’s grip at his hip doesn’t ease, and Iwaizumi’s moving but not towards the door, and then he’s dropping to his knees and Oikawa’s whole body is shuddering into startled tension at the suggestion made just by the other’s position in front of him.

He has to lick his lips to find coherency, has to swallow twice before his throat will ease enough to let him speak. “Iwa-chan?” The teasing lilt of his voice is gone, any deliberate structure to the sound melted away; now it’s all he can do to keep it quiet, he can hear the sound shuddering into warbling uncertainty in his throat.

“Close your damn mouth,” Iwaizumi tells him. His other hand comes out, closes against Oikawa’s other hip; Oikawa hears himself make a high, whimpering note of panic at the heat that rushes through him, that flushes his cock to visible hardness against the front of his shorts. Iwaizumi’s hard too -- Oikawa can still see the shape of him inside his clothes, even as he’s kneeling on the floor -- but the look he gives Oikawa somehow ignores this fact entirely, prickles self-consciousness all down Oikawa’s spine as if he’s somehow wrong for being so responsive to the heat of Iwaizumi’s mouth on his lips and against his throat.

“I’m not an exhibitionist,” Iwaizumi says, so low the sound purrs like a threat through Oikawa’s veins. Oikawa can feel his eyes going wider, his mouth coming open on the complete lack of air in his throat, and Iwaizumi is still staring at him, his eyes dark and endless and shadowed with the same insistence grating hard in his throat. “I can wait until we get home.”

“Iwa-chan” Oikawa starts, and “Shut up” Iwaizumi snaps back at him, not missing a beat in the rhythm of his speech. “ _I_ can wait.” He leans closer, tightens his hold; Oikawa can feel Iwaizumi’s thumbs sliding over the edge of bone, digging in hard against the soft valleys just along the line of his hips. “You’re the one who’s always so impatient.”

Oikawa opens his mouth to say something, somehow, to protest this patently false claim or to ask again what Iwaizumi is intending, to get some traction on the reeling confusion of the moment. But Iwaizumi looks away from his face and down to his shorts instead, and then he’s leaning in and pressing his mouth to the fabric and Oikawa’s speech evaporates into a whimper that is mostly shock and all heat. Iwaizumi looks up through his hair to meet Oikawa’s gaze, cutting a glare at him that says _quiet_ better than his occupied mouth could do, and then he’s turning his head sideways, shifting his angle to better press his mouth to the outline of Oikawa’s cock through his shorts.

Oikawa can’t breathe. His heart is pounding with too-much adrenaline, shock predominant in his mind but running a losing race with arousal, all of it overlaid with panic at the possibility of getting caught. There are still voices in the other room, still the skid of footsteps as proof that they’re out of range of interruption for now, but the gym isn’t so big that it can’t be crossed in a few seconds and Oikawa is certain he needs more time than that to collect himself. Some part of his mind is scrambling, calculating how much warning they might have, forming some excuse for the flush on his cheeks and the tremble in his knees, hoping that Iwaizumi will hear any approaching teammembers with enough warning to get his mouth off Oikawa’s clothes and get back on his feet. Otherwise, Oikawa thinks dizzily, there’s not much he can do; even the best actor in the world wouldn’t be able to talk his way out of his best friend on his knees in front of him sucking damp against the heat of his erection through his uniform shorts. The idea makes Oikawa feel slightly hysterical, bubbles irrepressible laughter in the back of his throat; he claps a hand over his mouth, hisses air past the restraint on his breathing, and Iwaizumi just keeps moving, opening his mouth wider so he can lick against Oikawa’s clothes. Oikawa can feel the heat of his mouth even with the barrier of fabric between them, and then Iwaizumi’s tongue presses a seam against the head of his cock and Oikawa’s hips jerk forward of their own accord, seeking out more of the shivering friction the pressure unwinds up his spine. Iwaizumi makes some sound wordless and low in his throat, and then he does it again, harder, sliding his tongue with unerring precision to drag friction and heat over the head of Oikawa’s cock. Oikawa’s shorts are going wet, clinging closer to his skin with each pass of the other’s tongue, and his attention is skidding out, even the distant sound of shoes on the gym floor insufficient to drag his focus back to where it should be. Iwaizumi’s hands are hard at his hips, Iwaizumi’s mouth is working the weight of his clothing so close it presses skin-tight to Oikawa’s cock, and then he tightens his lips and starts to suck and Oikawa whimpers against the weight of his palm, tilts his head back against the wall and stares unseeing at the dark of the ceiling. He has his other arm pressed flat against the wall, he realizes, his fingers tensing against the support like he can hold himself steady, and Iwaizumi is still sucking over him, catching his mouth against the head of Oikawa’s cock and pulling sensation up the other’s spine with the press of his lips. Oikawa’s shaking, his legs threatening collapse and his back arching, and then Iwaizumi opens his mouth wider, wide enough that the very edge of his teeth skims Oikawa’s shorts, and Oikawa jerks and comes, his cock spilling wet against the clinging weight of his shorts as his whole body shakes itself into breathless, ecstatic heat. Iwaizumi keeps sucking against him, the minimal friction of his mouth enough to draw Oikawa through shuddering waves of pleasure, until when he finally does pull away it’s all Oikawa can do to keep his feet under him even with the support of the wall at his shoulders.

“See,” Iwaizumi growls as he pushes to his feet, as he steps in close enough to shove Oikawa’s trembling body back against the wall. Oikawa grabs for Iwaizumi’s shoulder to hold himself up, tries to blink his gaze back into focus around the shivery aftershocks that keep hitting him; Iwaizumi is staring at him, his eyes night-black from this close up and his mouth flushed dark and so wet it draws Oikawa’s gaze helplessly down. He can watch it form the shape of sounds, can read Iwaizumi’s speech a heartbeat before he hears it just from the curve of the other’s lips. “Now who’s the impatient one.”

“Iwa-chan,” Oikawa manages, his voice wobbling in the back of his throat. “You. I.”

“Later,” Iwaizumi tells him. “By the time we get back you’ll be ready again, right?” He leans close, crushes his mouth flush to Oikawa’s; Oikawa’s whimper is lost to the inside of Iwaizumi’s mouth, the sound muffled out of hearing by the other’s lips. By the time Iwaizumi pulls away Oikawa is speechless again, his voice stolen by the drag of Iwaizumi’s mouth and the pant of his close-up breathing.

“Later,” Iwaizumi repeats, and then he’s stepping back, letting his hold on Oikawa’s hips go and reaching for his shorts so he can adjust himself into something like decency. Oikawa watches Iwaizumi look out to the rest of the gym, can see the consideration in his eyes as he gauges their situation before glancing back.

“Pull yourself together and come back out in a few minutes,” Iwaizumi tells him. “I’ll walk home with you after we’re done cleaning up.”

“Okay,” Oikawa says, and Iwaizumi moves away without looking back, striding out into the gym with nothing more noticeable than a flush on his cheeks to say what they’ve been doing. Oikawa’s shorts are dark enough that the wet doesn’t show up against the fabric, he finds when he investigates; still, he’s fairly sure the tremble in his stride and the speed of his breathing will make him significantly more suspicious than Iwaizumi to anyone who’s looking too closely.

Oikawa finds he doesn’t particularly mind the idea. Maybe he is a little bit of an exhibitionist, after all.


End file.
